


Letters to a Loved One

by Sir_Thopas



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Historical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 18:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15078968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Thopas/pseuds/Sir_Thopas
Summary: It is not long before I must depart from this world, but before I do I wish to tell you something of my life, during that long winter when I was imprisoned in an enchanted castle by its beastly lord - a historical Belle.First in the "Letters to a Loved One" series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had written this fanfic (including others in the series) years ago. As time went on, I grew dissatisfied with my own writing. Now, though, I can appreciate the mistakes I made because it helped me become a better writer, so I've decided to repost this series. The original title was "A Winter's Tale" but since that is also the name of a subsequent fic I decided to rename this "Letters to a Loved One".

It is November 19 in the year of our Lord 1746 and I will not live to see your first Christmas.

My darling Rose, even though I have only just met you I have loved you more than I have ever loved anyone. It pains me to think that I will never know you. I will never hear your thoughts or learn of your feelings. You have only just begun to smile.

O my child, it is a terrible thing for a daughter to grow up without her mother. These letters are a poor substitute, but I hope they provide you with some comfort. I wish for you to know who I was and who your father was. Already his heart has shattered, leaving nothing behind but broken pieces that cut and wound deeper than any thorn. I fear for him, my love, and for you as well. I know what it means for a child to grow without a mother.

I was born Belle de Villeneuve on November 22, 1720 in the city of Paris. My father was Maurice de Villeneuve and my mother was his cousin, named Élisabeth Benoit. While the birth of your father was lauded as a divine miracle, mine was a herald of misfortune. Three days after I was born my mother perished of fever. She was a beautiful woman. I remember that my father had once owned a portrait of her, before he lost everything. Her hair was raven black and she had large dark eyes and porcelain skin. My sister Violette looks the most like her, but I was to have her name. I, too, was supposed to be Élisabeth de Villeneuve, but upon my baptism my father simply called me Belle. To his death my father never uttered my mother's name. I believe it was far too painful for him. Everything that I know of her I learnt from my sisters.

Violette is the eldest and was five when Mother died. She remembers the most of that faraway woman who is but a mystery to me. On stormy nights when the rain would beat upon our windows and the night sky would be illuminated with the bright flash of lightening, Marie and I – frightened children that we were - would crawl into Violette's bed and make her tell stories about Mother. She would always begin very slowly, trying to dredge up half-forgotten memories that were nothing more than whispers and mist. She might speak on the way she laughed or how the smell of cloves would cling to her skin, but soon her simple story would begin to unravel and her tale would reveal that Mother was truly a fairy princess who did not die but was forced to return to the fairy court and rule it as queen and that when we grew up she would come back for us and make us princesses and Papa would be king.

I never forgot those tales. I wished so desperately for them to be true. I did not want to be my mother's murderer. You, my little child, must know that you are not to blame for my death. You must not let your father feel guilty for my death, either. I am the only one to blame for this misfortune. It was merely a week ago that I was healthy and possessed a pink blush to my cheeks and a brightness to my eyes. Your father and I went out riding in the afternoon. I made sport of it and galloped ahead, laughing as I did. Your father never could back down from a challenge and took his games very seriously. He chased after me, determined to come out ahead. The rain, however, beat us both. The storm overtook us quite suddenly; the winters here are always so cold and dry, nary a drop touches the ground. But neither your father nor I was willing to abandon the game. I won the race, but the victory now seems like a poor trade. I developed a cold but was confident that I would be well again soon. It has only been an hour since the doctor departed and dashed all my hopes to the ground. It is pneumonia! I fear that I will never be well. If by some miracle I live I will burn these letters and I will never, ever speak of this to you my darling. But I do not think I will. I am afraid that I will have to suffer your anger even in heaven, for no doubt you are angry at your mother's own foolishness. You will have no mother and it was all for a game!

I hope that you will someday get to meet your aunts. Perhaps Violette will tell you stories about me. She will weave a fantastic tale about how I became the Duchess of Berry by saving His Most High and Most Powerful Prince Louis de Alençon, Duke of Berry from a terrible curse placed upon him by a powerful enchantress.

Only that story will be true.

But first I must tell you of where I began and how I got to be as I am. It will be a story that I hope you will enjoy. I was always fond of a good story. But for now I will end my letter. My cough has made me weary and I can no longer see the letters that I have written, my vision is blurred and tired. Know that I love you, my darling Rose.

 

Mama


	2. Chapter 2

November 20, 1746

 

To my Little Rose,

Your father, the Duke, brought you to my rooms today so that I may look upon you. You are a chubby little thing and your father has taken to calling you 'the little old man' for there is not a hint of hair on your head despite the fact that it has been nine months since your birth. I am adamantly disabusing him of the pet name, rest assured.

Beneath your father's mean-spirited jests there was a feeling of deep sorrow. Your father held you close, but I was afraid to touch you in the condition that I am in. We looked at you quietly for a long time until your father remarked that your eyes were a deep ocean blue. Madame Potts has told me that babies often have blue eyes, but that they will change as you grow older. She is convinced that your eyes will be brown by the time you are five, the same color as my own. I am unsure as to whether this pleases me or not.

After a while the nurse came to take you away from me. For a few moments your father stayed by my side although he said nothing. He did not need to. His angelic face was like a dark cloud. He is angry with me. He is angry at God. Most of all I think he is angry with himself. You will not understand. I doubt that you ever could. Your father believes that there is no good inside of him. Sometimes I think that when he looks in the mirror he does not see his handsome face shining back at him, but that of the lonely monster that he once was.

It has occurred to me that I have yet to begin my tale. I have promised that I will tell you the story of my life, but now that I am about to I am unsure of how to go about it. Perhaps I shall speak to you of Paris, the city of my childhood. You will never know it as I knew it, you who will spend your childhood here at the Chateau de Mehun-sur-Yévre and your maiden years at the Palace of Versailles, your feet never touching the pervasive dirt of that overgrown town. As much as I disliked the provincial village of St. Benoit-du-Sault its beauty far outshines that of Paris. I grew up in a lovely house that was nestled between the tightly packed homes of the well-to-do, but even then I had to contend with the filthy streets that were bustling with people and the traffic of animals, the rain that turned everything into mud, and the smell of unwashed bodies pressed tightly together.

I was not born into the old nobility. I was not even one of the noblesse de robe. My family had such grand aspirations, to be sure, but their machinations turned out to be for naught. I was born into the bourgeoisie, into a merchant family and not even a wealthy merchant family at that. My grandfather, whom I had never met, was a furrier who made quite a tidy sum buying and selling beaver furs from the New World. With the help of my formidable grandmother – the infamous and uncouth Alexandrine de Villeneuve – he transformed his shop into a thriving business. He amassed his wealth quickly and rose through the ranks of the bourgeoisie. It was not long before my Grandmother began plotting on snaring an impoverished noblewoman as a bride for one of her sons.

Alas, her children proved far too unruly. My uncle left for the New World to take over the beaver trade, and Papa… O my dear Papa, he fell in love. He knew Mother since the cradle and I think he loved her even then. Papa lived in his dreams; he had no understanding of my Grandmother's plots. Needless to say Grandmother was quite displeased with him, but she allowed the marriage just the same.

However, life began to unravel after my grandfather's death. It fell upon Papa – as his only son still in France – to take over the business. Papa knew nothing of business. He knew science and the inner workings of mechanical things. He was always dreaming up some new invention, one that he was sure was going to revolutionize France. It was only because of Grandmother that we remained as comfortable as we were.

My life in Paris was simple and sweet. I spent most of my time in the company of my sister Marie and our nurse. Violette was already gone by this time, learning her letters and numbers at the Ursuline convent at Poissy. Marie is but two years older than I. She is a tiny thing, black-haired and black-eyed and completely wild in her ways. Marie was a terrible playmate. I think I might have grown into a proper lady if it was not for Marie! She would terrorize the servants, leaving frogs and worms for the maids to find. I worshiped my sister and followed her on all of her adventures, even to my own detriment. When our nurse caught us dropping pebbles onto the passersby from the upstairs window she took a switch to us. That was the last time I ever did such a thing. Marie would not be cowed, however. She ran to Papa, crying at the injustice of it all. To Marie's great surprise, Papa supported the nurse's punishment and in her anger Marie took all of Papa's stockings and threw them into a chamber pot. After that it was decided that it was time for Marie to join Violette at the convent.

I remember that the house was very quiet without Marie. As I was his last child Papa doted on me as I did on him. He bought me dresses and dolls and books by the dozen. He read to me nearly every night of faraway places and princes in disguise. My favorite was _L'Arcadie_ by Jacopo Sannazaro. It was one of our few possessions that were not seized. Papa hid it, knowing that I loved it so. The beautiful leather-bound book sits even now on my dressing table and when I pick it up and read I think of him. On Sundays, Papa allowed me to play at his feet as he tinkered with his mechanical things or took me out for long strolls in the country. Occasionally we would get a letter from Uncle or Violette. Some of my happiest memories are of him reading Uncle's letters in the evening by the fireplace. Papa was an enthusiastic speaker who could make any story – no matter how fantastic – seem real. Hearing my Uncle's stories of the Huron people and their beautiful dances, the deep forests, and the strange animals of the New World in Papa's passionate voice always moved me and made me yearn for adventure.

I was six or seven when this all came to an end. My earliest memory of Grandmother is of her sweeping out of her carriage, the black silk of her dress fluttering around her making her seem like a great crow swooping down towards me. I remember that it was a Sunday and Papa and I had just returned from Mass when Grandmother arrived. The easy, relaxed atmosphere suddenly changed. The servants grew quiet, their eyes remained locked to the floor, and Papa was very nervous which, in turn, made me very nervous. I watched from the stairs as Grandmother entered the foyer. The butler led her to the parlor where Papa was there to receive her. I remained on the stairway for some time until a maid came to fetch me. She brought me inside the parlor, a room that I had never been allowed into before. I remember being in awe over the beautifully decorated room. I can see it even now. It was blue and there were all kinds of songbirds and flowers painted on its walls. The ceiling was sculpted and gilded. A large marble fireplace was the focus of the room and there was Grandmother and Papa seated upon two delicate sofas opposite of each other, a study of black silk and white lace. Grandmother bade me to stand before her so that she could examine me. She determined me to be very pretty, second only to Violette. I know now that Violette and I were to figure into my Grandmother's plots in gaining a title. She had wanted to marry me to a minor noble, or, at the very least, an ennobled lawyer perhaps. Violette was to be the mistress of the king where she would undoubtedly gain an illustrious estate through the marriage of one the king's relatives. As for Marie, I do not know what Grandmother had planned for her except perhaps to have her committed to a convent. O, the plots of mortals! How rarely do they ever turn out the way we expect them to.

To prepare for my future I was sent to the Ursuline convent same as my sisters to receive my education. I am considered to be a well-learned woman, even a femme savante amongst those at Versailles, but you, my little daughter, shall be more learned than I. You shall be taught by your father's tutor, Monsieur Cogsworth, and be given an education that befits that of a royal cousin to the King.

Poissy was very different from Paris; the little commune was quite beautiful although I did not get to see much of it. I was cloistered at the convent with the other girls who were boarding there, including my own sisters. I fell in love with the convent. Every morning before dawn we would rise for Morning Prayer and to partake of the Eucharist. Afterwards, Sister Marguerite would take the younger students to begin the day's lessons. I learned to read and write, both in French and in Latin, and to do arithmetic. As I grew older, the lessons became harder. I studied geography, mythology, and French history. When I turned twelve the sisters began to teach me the Arts of Pleasing: music, singing, dancing, and drawing. I became quite proficient in these subjects, as you no doubt will be. And of course we read from the Bible and were taught the words of Jesus Christ. I had my first communion at the convent and was confirmed in the Church there as well.

After our lessons we would have supper. It was a quiet affair; speaking was not permitted during meals. Quite a change from Papa's endless chatter! After supper we helped the sisters with chores or spent the afternoons in some other useful occupation. I could often be found embroidering during this time. Occasionally I helped Sister Marguerite tend to her geese. I always enjoyed chasing them into the convent after they had spent a day by the banks of their little pond and feeding the hungry little creatures from my hand. When Papa and I moved to St. Benoit-du-Sault I made sure that we had geese. After spending the afternoon working, we would have our Evening Prayers before retiring to our chambers to read a little while before sleep.

I was not the only one to fall in love with the convent. Violette could not be persuaded to leave. When I was twelve Violette took her vows and became a novice. Only she neglected to tell any of us her plans! It was quite a shock for me to wake up one morning for prayers only to see Violette in her habit ringing the bells. Grandmother bemoaned Violette's fate. To have a granddaughter for a nun was very prestigious indeed. The old nobility could look favorably upon the de Villeneuves for that. But for a nun to be so pretty, what a shame my Grandmother said! According to Grandmother, Violette had thrown away her one grace. If I had had the choice I would have followed in Violette's footsteps and taken the Holy Orders as well. But, alas, it was not to be. I was quite sorrowful when Grandmother took me away from the convent at the age of fourteen, but I am glad of it now for I would not have married your father and you would have never been born.

My wild Marie, on the other hand, detested the convent. She felt stifled, restlessly moving from one end of the convent to the other, pulling at the plain clothes we were made to wear and wishing for some rouge. She constantly bemoaned the endless work, her eyes turning a soft gaze out the window as she thought about all of the dances and parties she was missing as she remained locked away inside. In the spring of her fifteenth year Marie ran away from the convent in the middle of the night, eloping with the son of a lawyer. How she had come to meet him I do not know, but they must have been meeting clandestinely for some time. Despite the somewhat scandalous nature of the marriage, Grandmother was quite pleased that Marie had ensnared a boy from a family more prestigious than her own. It was a good prospect, better than what Grandmother had hoped for Marie. If only the same could be said for the boy's father! He disowned his son for marrying the daughter of a merchant who lived off the charity of his mother. Once Grandmother heard that, she decided to write Marie out of her will as well, denying my sister her dowry. My Grandmother did not see the point in having a granddaughter if she could not be useful in some way. I was the only hope Grandmother had left.

I shall tell you of her schemes in my next letter, for I am tired and wish to sleep. I will love you always, my darling Rose.

 

Mama


	3. Chapter 3

November 23, 1746

 

To my Darling Rose,

I apologize for the lapse in time since my last letter. The doctor came to my bed a few days ago to bleed me. I fear that the treatment has injured me far worse than the illness for I feel so weary. I can hardly summon the strength to write you this letter, but I know I must. My days grow short and I cannot put it off any longer. I do not think I have much time left.

My birthday was yesterday. I slept through it, unaware that I had turned one year older. I am now twenty-six years old. It is a funny feeling to be twenty-six. When I was eighteen, twenty-six seemed so old and faraway, the age of old mothers who had settled comfortably into middle-age. Now all I want is to live to see twenty-seven! I am so young, too young to die.

I am afraid that I have fallen into melancholy and try as I might I cannot seem to pull myself out of it. If I continue on like this I shall be no better than your father. He should have been a poet or an actor with the way he likes to carry on.

I cannot fault him for it, though. To mock his pain now would be too cruel and I have promised myself that I would never be cruel to him. He is a lonely man who knows the love of but a precious few and all have left him. Your father is Louis d'Alençon, Duke of Berry and the son of Charles de France and his wife Marie Louise Élisabeth d'Orléans. He was born on October 29, 1714, only five precious months after the death of his father. His father was the last in a long line of royal deaths that nearly extinguished the entire Bourbon dynasty. Smallpox ravaged Versailles, taking with it your father's uncles and aunts and cousins. The only one to escape the black hand of Death was your father's young cousin, our King Louis XV. Like his cousin, your father barely escaped cold-skinned Death as well. He almost perished at birth, sickly as he was. But he lived. His mother did not. She died but five years later at the age of twenty-three. And yet still Death has not finished with your father for now it has come for me too. I have failed to keep my promise.

But I cannot force you to suffer through my maudlin prose any longer. I must finish my story. After Violette took her vows and Marie was cast off, I was Grandmother's last hope to reach Versailles. At fourteen she took me from the convent and set me up in her manor outside of Paris as her ward. The sisters had done their duty in providing an education fit for a merchant's daughter, but now it was time for Grandmother to teach me how to become a courtier. Her home became an inn for tutors and teachers, the very best Paris had to offer. I became quite proficient in a number of subjects, not because of any innate talent that I possessed but because I had no choice. I did love my studies, though. I discovered that I was not disagreeable at singing or playing upon the harpsichord; my music teacher Pierre Jélyotte called my voice quite lovely.

Despite my Grandmother's ambitions, she remained a poor country girl underneath her gauche dresses and her bought airs. My Grandmother often took me along when she went to call on neighbors, but we were not well received. Only those friends who were as crude as Grandmother welcomed her into their homes. Grandmother remained oblivious to her own detestableness, but I was not. Not even her fortune could attract suitors to ask for my hand in marriage when they discovered just what kind of family they would be marrying into. Although my Grandmother's coarseness embarrassed me greatly, she did introduce me into the world of the philosophes.

My Grandmother graciously hosted such eminent scholars and writers as Voltaire, Montesquieu, and Helvétius. They would sit in Grandmother's salon and talk on such a great many of subjects, subjects that I never even knew existed. I would listen to them for hours, soaking in their thoughts on politics, foreign lands, feminism, and reform. I did not dare say anything during these conversations for fear of seeming ignorant. Your father would laugh to hear such a thing. The Duchess of Berry shy? Never! But I was. I gave up my fairy tales and pastoral romances – they seemed so childish and common then – in favor of Voltaire's _La Henriade_ , Montesquieu's _Persian Letters_ , and Poullain de La Barre's _The Equality of the Two Sexes_.

But it was not to last. In 1736 my Uncle received a hatchet to the head during a skirmish between the Indians. A trapper friend of his, a certain Monsieur Jumel, wrote to us on the incident. There are many different tribes of Indians, my daughter, and not all of them as good as my Uncle's Huron friends. There is a tribe there in the New World called the Iroquois who are the conquering kings of that faraway land. They conquered the Huron and subjugated them, refused to allow them to trade with the French. They proclaimed that only the Iroquois could trade with the white trappers. My Uncle disliked the Iroquois and refused to do business with them. He continued to trade exclusively with the Huron, inciting Iroquois ire. Uncle lasted only a few days before he perished from the wound. He is buried there along the Belle Riviere, what the Huron call the Ohio River.

After Uncle's death, Papa could not receive furs as quickly or as cheaply. Papa quickly amassed a great amount of debt in an attempt to keep his shop open. In the end, he could not pay and the tax collectors took everything that Papa and Grandmother owned. The only thing that belonged to the name de Villeneuve was a little cottage in St. Benoit-du-Sault that had been a part of Grandmother's dowry. The three of us had no choice but to move into that crumbling house in that small, provincial town. My Grandmother had spent her entire life running away from that village and now she was trapped there, as were Papa and I. Grandmother could not suffer through her fall and died within a few months of her return to that village.

If you were to visit St. Benoit-du-Sault you would find it to be quite beautiful. However, the landscape loses some of its luster when there is nothing to protect you from it. I knew nothing of the country; the closest I had come to it was at Poissy which seemed so picturesque from the safety of the convent. How can I possibly describe what it means to be poor? Where starvation and exposure awaited you at every corner? The cottage was falling down around our heads and we only had enough money to buy a few animals. We had a horse, a cow, and a couple of chickens and geese. The roof had long rotted away and Papa's attempts to thatch it would have been humorous if it had not been our only protection from the coming winter. I am certain that Papa and I would have died as well if it had not been for Gaston Avenant.

Gaston was twenty-five and I was but sixteen. He was a man of the forest, simple and illiterate, more animal than man. But he seemed fascinated with us, or me I should say. I had not endeared myself to the rest of the village. Papa and I were seen as snobbish, flaunting our strange ideas and bourgeoisie manners in their faces. They couldn't understand us just as we couldn't understand them. Papa and I had only each other for two long years. We were outcasts; the only voices we heard were our own. Ousted from Paris, we formed our own salon, finding pamphlets and books wherever we could get them and discussing them by the fire. I talked to Papa on John Locke and Papa discussed Isaac Newton. The only other friendly face was the book peddler who came to town every few weeks. It was through him that I rediscovered my love for fairy tales. He was a kind old man who indulged my cart-side reading instead of making me pay for the books first. He even gave me _Fairy Tales_ by Madame d'Aulnoy for free, which sits next to _L'Arcadie_ on my shelf, well-beloved and treasured. But most of the time we had no one else but each other for the other villagers disliked us, even feared us I think. Except for Gaston.

Gaston helped Papa thatch our roof, and fixed our well, and even occasionally delivered to us game meat that he had killed and prepared with his own hands. He made no attempt to hide his interest in me. I must have seemed quite exotic to him, this pretty Parisian girl with good manners and he who had never even ventured outside of his village. He could not even learn of the places that I tried to talk to him about for he, like so many of the villagers, could not read. I never had any intention of marrying him, however. Despite the kindness he showed me and my father, he was dull and dim-witted with a streak of cruelness in him. He preferred it when I remained silent, even telling me on one occasion that, "You have a pretty face, but you ruin your beauty every time you speak." Papa wished we could overcome our differences and marry; he feared that each winter would be our last and Gaston would at least save me from a life of drudgery, or prostitution, or even death. But I simply could not marry him, and Papa did not press the issue. I avoided Gaston when I could and thanked him kindly, if coldly, every time he called upon us.

I toiled in that little village for two years, not knowing that I would soon leave it behind forever. When I was eighteen I met your father, locked away in a long forgotten chateau bewitched and cursed. But that is a story for next time.

 

I will love you always,

Mama


	4. Chapter 4

November 27, 1746

 

Lovely Rose,

It is the first snow of winter.

When Babette pulled open the drapes this morning I was greeted with a most wondrous sight. All through the night snow had fallen, covering the hard black soil in a blanket of white. I do so love the snow. There is magic within snow, I can feel it. It snowed on the very night I first met your father.

Everything seems to happen in winter. Your father was transformed into a beast at the beginning of a winter and became a man once more at a winter's end. I was born in winter and I will die in winter. All my life has been one long winter.

And here now is Madame Potts with her tea. I have never met a woman who so loved tea as much as Madame Potts. It is perhaps because she is English and the English are so very peculiar when it comes to tea. Now our housekeeper is giving me a most disagreeable look, no doubt in chastisement of my current writing. I am forever being told that I need more rest. I am tired of resting. I am tired of waiting.

I will miss this old woman when I am gone. There has never been a more faithful servant than Madame Potts. All your father and I have are our servants; no more family, no more friends. We were abandoned upon our banishment from Versailles. I may as well already be dead to those lovely lords and ladies! I do not mind so much and I think your father prefers it this way. You will no doubt disagree when you grow older and wonder why you have no playmates, but by then perhaps the king will lift our banishment and allow your father to return to the palace. In the meantime I have the servants, who are the same as any other friend. Those at Versailles could not understand. It is not done to befriend those that are so far beneath you. But I – and your father too – once lived in bondage alongside these men and women and just the same as them.

I only wish I could have done more for them. Perhaps it is time that I put my affairs in order.

To Monsieur William Cogsworth, tutor and companion to my husband, I give you _Goût de Haute Vie_ by William Hogarth. I can remember how shocked you were to discover that I, your mistress, had bought such a painting. And then to display it in my own sitting room where any high-born lady might see it! I used to laugh at the way you would grimace every time you looked upon it; no doubt you wished to tell me just how scandalous I was behaving. Perhaps I am not so different from my Grandmother after all. In any case, the painting is yours now. You may lock it away if you wish or even hang it in your own room if you are ever in need of a good laugh.

To Mademoiselle Babette Roux, my faithful, funny maid, I give you fifty silver écu pieces for your dowry that is to be paid to you upon your wedding day. I can only hope that this will entice you and your Lumière into marriage! Surely you must be tired of the confessional by now.

To Monsieur Timothy Potts, my husband's pageboy, also known to this household as Chip. As a youth of sixteen it no longer seems appropriate to refer to you by such a name. You are no longer a child but a young man. To you I give you whatever finances you may need in your pursuit of education. Whether you are destined for university, or monastery, or apprenticeship you will always have the means to fulfill it.

To Monsieur François Lumière, valet to my husband, I am unsure of what I should leave you. I will never forget how you welcomed me into that terrifying castle, soothing away my sorrow and fear with a joke and a song. Upon my death you may take anything you like from my rooms as a keepsake. I hope that whatever you choose may help you to remember me.

To Madame Charlotte Potts, this chateau's most exemplary housekeeper, I leave you that little cottage in St. Benoit-du-Sault. I assure you it is in much better condition than when I first came to it. I know that you will never leave the service of the Duke, but if you ever wish to retire to the country you will have a place that you may call your own.

To my daughter, I leave you my library. I hope the treasure you find within will bring you as much joy as it brought me. Next to the pleasure of being with you and your father, I know of none greater than reading.

To my husband, the Duke of Berry, I give you a single Rose.

Shall I finish my story?

Even after two years Gaston did not abandon his pursuit of me. Despite his proclamations of love, I have no doubt that I was merely sport, another wild creature for him to stalk and ensnare. If my bourgeoisie manners had not won me any friends my dismissal of Gaston brought me the villagers' derision. Gaston was exceedingly handsome, more so than even your father. He lived comfortably, he was strong, and was young and good-looking; all the things a woman should look for in a husband. And yet I turned him away. There were whispers and rumors that my heart was as cold as ice and that I was unfeeling and ungrateful for all that Gaston had done for me and Papa. I will not lie; such talk brought me much grief. But I remained stalwart. I did not love him, I could not even like him. I would not marry him.

To make ends meet I grew a small vegetable garden and filled it with beets, sage, escarole, leeks, cardoons, and an assortment of other vegetables. We even had a pear tree. I made cheese and butter from our lone milk cow. I made sugar from our beets. Eggs were always available, as was the occasional chicken or goose for Christmas and other feast and saint days. Papa would bring in extra money by sewing furs – his biggest customer by far was Gaston. In his off time Papa would apply his love for science towards invention, a hobby that he did not pursue in Paris for want of time. He was always so sure that his next invention would revolutionize France, but the only mechanical trinket that worked moderately well was a woodcutting machine he spent the entire year of 1738 making.

That year Papa left to present his device at the fair at Bourges. But he never arrived. Our horse and cart returned to our cottage in a blind panic. How the creature had managed to make it all the way back without being captured by some farmer I do not know. But upon the horse's return I knew something was wrong. I found the map that Papa had used in the saddlebag and followed the markings that he had made. It led me to a dilapidated castle, dark and broken and abandoned. It was your home, the Chateau de Mehun-sur-Yévre, but you would not have recognized it. Its beauty had been replaced with ugliness. Dark and forbiding, the castle reeked with a sense of fear and bewitchment. Gargoyles loomed ominiously overhead and the stone was colored a sooty black as though the entire structure had been engulfed in flames. And yet, still it stood, the work of magic.

I entered the castle, determined to find my father. It looked as though no one had lived there for a great many of years. Tapestries had been torn and paintings had been ripped as though a massive pair of claws had run through them. Dust covered the stone and the air was stale; no one lived there and yet I could feel eyes watching me wherever I went.

I eventually found Papa in the castle's dungeon with a cough just as bad as my own is now. Before I could release him I found myself staring into the blue eyes of a monster. He was a great animal, a beast of the likes that I had never seen before. He stood on his hind legs, towering over me with large fangs and giant paws. Horns grew from his head and a wolf's tail scrapped along the floor. It was a terrifying sight. He spoke to me, but I could barely hear the words through the creature's snarls and growls. I knew then that whatever this poor creature was he was more animal than man. I begged the creature to release my father and he accepted it. So long as I stayed in the castle in my father's stead. I agreed and watched the Beast drag my father away, ill and weak, with a broken heart. You must no doubt find it shocking that I was once a prisoner in this very same chateau that I am now mistress of.

I remember that it was a Friday, the 1st of December. The days and months were so important to me then when it no longer mattered.

It snowed that night.

I fear I must end this letter now, my coughs have caused me to shake and my script has grown coarse and illegible. I will write to you tomorrow or perhaps the next day.

 

Goodbye my daughter,

Mama


	5. Chapter 5

November 29, 1746

 

My dear little Rose,

I have offended your father, I think.

He is unwilling to accept just how far my illness has progressed. He keeps himself locked away just a few doors down in his apartments, turning away anyone who would dare to call upon him. When he emerges there is a blackness that follows him, a darkness that refuses to let him be. According to Lumière's grand tales, my lord apparently chased the good doctor on horse when he came to call again, convinced that the bleeding was the cause of my weakness.

When he came to visit me yesterday I could see his rage and his melancholy at war across his face as he quietly held my hand. I told my husband that I did not wish for him to mourn me so, that after my death he should find a bit of happiness wherever he could and remarry, for his sake and yours, dear Rose. It was an impulsive thing to say and I regret it now for the broken look dear Louis gave me took what little breath I have left.

But it has been said and I cannot take it back now. I hope that he takes my advice; it is all that I have left for him.

Where was I in my story? Yes, it was the night I met your father.

The Beast did not lock me away in a long-forgotten dungeon as I thought he would. Instead he led me to one of the chateau's guest apartments, all the while attempting to make small talk in that deep growl of a voice. I was hysterical. To think of this monster who had just imprisoned me attempting to start a polite conversation! I was overcome with a very queer sort of feeling. I did not know whether I wanted to laugh or cry. In the end, I managed to keep silent.

The apartment he had given me was nicer than I thought it would be. It was beautiful in a dark, mysterious way. The walls were a dark blue and white marble, and a large fireplace took up almost an entire wall. Carved into the mantle's marble were a pair of mystifying queens. I remember the slow way in which they turned their heads to look at me with their empty eyes. I nearly gasped and fell out of the room, but the Beast was there, blocking my path.

Before the creature took his leave he commanded that I would join him for supper, and I – his willing slave – had no choice to follow his orders. Then he was gone. I collapsed upon the bed and cried until I fell asleep.

I awoke to the sound of a woman's voice calling for me. It was a kind and gentle sort of voice and I, still half-asleep, thought for a moment that it was Sister Marguerite. When I opened the door there was no one there but a silver servant's tray, a small porcelain cup, and a teapot. I looked about the hall, but saw no one. And then the tray began to move, the squeaking of the tray's silver ball wheels seemed deafening at the sight of a tray moving on its own.

I collapsed against the wardrobe and heard it groan and I knew then it was alive as well. Looking around I thought I saw the walls shudder and the shadows play against every object in the room. I felt faint. The castle was alive! But then I heard that voice call out to me once more. At first I did not know where it was coming from, but then I determined that it was the teapot. I did not know how it was talking, but it was. She told me that her name had been Madame Potts and I realized then that she had once been as human as I. She bade me to have a drink of tea and although I felt awkward and unsure of using an object that was alive in such a way I poured myself a cup and took a sip.

I feared what this might mean for me. What had the Beast done to these poor people? Had he killed them and now their souls were trapped within his chateau? Was this going to happen to me? As I sat there I knew then that I would not obey my new master. He could kill me if he wanted but I would not become this monster's willing puppet.

When I sent the message that I would not join him for supper, I could hear him rage and storm from across the castle. The ground shook as his thundering paws crashed into the floor with each giant leap. He threatened to break open the door, to pull me out of the room, if I did not have supper with him. I refused once more. It was quiet for a long time, but then he tried a different tactic. He asked me politely.

I was so surprised that I almost agreed. But then I grew fearful. He seemed determined to have me dine with him. Was this how he did it? If I ate the food here would I become a porcelain dish or a wooden chest? I was reminded of the story of Hadès and Perséphone, of how the King of the Dead had stolen away the beautiful spring goddess down into the Underworld. She would have been free if she had not taken from the god a pomegranate. To eat the food of the dead was to remain trapped there. Again I refused and in retaliation the Beast confined me to the room, commanding that if I did not eat with him then I would not eat at all.

I accepted his ultimatum. I would have gladly starved to death rather than have my immortal soul trapped within an object. However, after two days I could not take it any longer. Starvation is very painful, far more painful than I had realized. I had always been hungry in the village, there never seemed to be enough food. But having little to eat is not the same as having nothing to eat. I decided not to accept his conditions and sneaked out to find food myself. He was a monster and I felt no obligation to honor his command.

The imprisoned servants gave me food freely and gladly, if fearfully. I, however, felt emboldened. I knew that defying the Beast's orders would likely mean meeting my death, but I did not care. If I was to die anyway then I wanted to die in defiance of my captor. I roamed the chateau knowing that the entire castle was watching me. I came to the chateau's west wing. There seemed a heavy feeling of fear and depression clinging to the walls and tapestries. The Beast had told me that the West Wing was forbidden to all but himself. I knew that he must be hiding something of great importance, perhaps even the secret of his servants' transformation. I had made my decision. I went up the stairs.

This part of the chateau was not like the rest. The air around me was heavy with death and pain. I came to a pair of grand double doors with handles in the shape of gargoyles. They snarled silently at me, but I paid them no heed and pulled the doors open. Inside was a large set of apartments and at one time they must have been very beautiful. But each room was filled with broken furniture and shattered porcelain. There was no rhyme or reason to the collection of broken things. I thought that I had stumbled upon some sort of storage room, but then I saw a strange little nest made of fabric and straw. I knew then that this was where the Beast slept. Venturing further I came to a delicate table where a single rose was suspended within a bell jar. Pulling the jar away I reached out to touch the blood red flower only to have my vision blurred by the sight of rustling brown fur leaping towards me. Suddenly the jar was secured back in its place, the Beast protectively hugging it to his massive chest. He then turned towards me and I could hear a deep angry growl. I stepped back, but he pursued. He demanded to know why I was there, what I wanted. I couldn't speak, I was so afraid. He lifted his paws and I flinched, but he brought them crashing down to the floor, onto the broken furniture, onto his own head. His madness terrified me and I ran. I fled the castle into the forest.

It was the middle of the night and the forest is a dangerous place. I was besieged by wolves, trapped by the vicious animals. I thought that I was going to die, but suddenly the Beast was there, fighting off the hungry pack. The wolves fled and the Beast collapsed into the snow, wounded and weak. I confess that I almost abandoned him, left him to die in the snow, to be eaten by the forest's scavengers. But he saved my life and as much as I loathed him and his haunted castle, I knew I could not leave him and ever be content with myself again. He was weak but still conscious and together we were able to get him onto my horse. I took him to the castle where I nursed him back to health. Watching the Beast interact with the castle and its strange populace, I realized that he loved the long-lost people trapped within it. Whatever had happened here, he was not to blame. Beneath the animal there lay a human's heart, filled with deep, troubled emotions. He was angry, yes, but he was also depressed, and ashamed, and fearful. And when he looked at me there was something akin to hope. It made me uncomfortable. What hope could I possibly give him? What did he expect of me?

Over the next week I dressed his wounds and tended to his fever as he lay in that funny little nest. I hated his rooms. There was a sticky feeling in the air, and a strange smell that assaulted my senses. Even the rose brought me no joy. The Beast looked upon it with something like terror. If such a delicate thing could make him afraid then I knew there must be some power behind it.

One night, as I watched him toss and turn in his sleep, trapped within those fevered dreams, I realized what that stench was. It was the smell of death. Looking around at the broken furniture, I finally saw what this room truly was: a tomb that the Beast had sealed himself up inside. The furniture and the porcelain and the china that littered the room, they had all once been alive like Madame Potts and Lumière. Horrified, I called for the servants to move the Beast to one of the guest apartments at once. It didn't matter whether the Beast was animal or man; to surround oneself with the death of loved ones wounded the spirit.

The Duke has always had trouble letting go. He clings, fearful of missing out on any precious second. For a man who had once lost everything, he treats everything with a treasured reverence.

After that, the Beast and I came to an understanding. He would no longer try to force his will upon me, so long as I stayed there with him. A tentative friendship arose between us and something that I knew could not possibly be love. But that is for next time.

 

Goodnight my Rose,

Mama


	6. Chapter 6

November 30, 1746

 

My Daughter,

December is nearly upon us and as it draws nearer I think of your first Christmas. Will you miss me, little Rose? Will you somehow know, in your heart of hearts, that I am supposed to be there with you? When you look at me now you know, as all infants seem to know, that I am your mother. But soon you will forget me. You will not have a single memory of me.

I should be with you on first Christmas. I should be with you for all of your Christmases.

My Christmas with the Beast was dark and bleak. By Christmas Eve the Beast was well, although perhaps still a little weak from the fever and I thought celebrating would do his body and soul good. There was a harpsichord in an old, disused drawing room and I knew how to play a few carols by heart. It was a little out of tune, but when I began to play the harpsichord did too. For a moment I had forgotten that all the objects within the chateau were cursed, but only for a moment. I was delighted by the music we created; it was a strange and lovely little duet. While playing I felt myself transported back to Paris, the city of my childhood, where the caroling was gay and lively and the homes were filled with happy revelers.

I remember we were playing "Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle" when the Beast came. Suddenly large paws slammed the harpsichord shut, nearly crushing my fingers in the process. He ordered that I cease my carols at once. God was not welcomed in his castle.

I would not back down, however. I could give up my home, and my father, but I could not give up my God. No matter what happened I was safe in the knowledge that God would not abandon me. And after nearly a month of living with such a tempestuous creature I put that belief to the test. I stood firm, raised my voice to match his and would not back down. Neither would he. He demanded to know whether or not God loved him. I stated that God loved all creatures. Do all creatures go to heaven, he had asked. When he had posed this question to me something in my chest dropped and I knew why he hated God. No, I answered, only those creatures who had an immortal soul, only humans. The Beast was not human. He was an animal, a monster, a cursed thing. I agreed with his request and kept my carols to myself.

We spent the day apart, me in my room and he in his. When the clock struck midnight I left my quarters and ventured down to that little drawing room with the harpsichord. If I were still in the village I would have been just returning home from Mass, still full of good cheer at the arrival of Christmas Day. But not that Christmas. A somber feeling hung in the air and I could not help but wonder why God would create such a creature only to abandon him. Since his rescue I had gotten to know the Beast little by little and I had found that there was something deeper, something human underneath the animal. He may not have been a man, but he was a good person and that should count for something, shouldn't it?

I sat upon the little bench and idly tapped one of the keys, my soul seized in a crisis of faith. But then I looked up and there I saw a little terracotta crèche painted in the most beautiful colors sitting upon a dusty table. I watched the little figure of the Virgin Mary lean down to touch the brow of her Son with Joseph at her side. And there, in the far corner of the room, the three little Magi were waiting for the Epiphany. In twelve days the crèche would be complete.

The Beast would not accept God – it was understandable, we did not know if God would accept him – but I could bring him a little joy and happiness. It was what I had wanted to do to begin with. If the Beast rejected carols and hymns then I would not play them. But he did not forbid the playing of secular music. I began to play Jean-Baptiste Lully's overture for _Le Bourgeoise gentilhomme_. Quickly picking up the music, the harpsichord itself began to play as well. Together we filled the room with the light and airy music. By the end of the overture there was a grand audience surrounding the instrument and I. A room once empty was suddenly filled with the oddest assortment of objects and figurines. But the guest of honor was the Lord of the Castle, the Beast. Encouraged we played through the night.

There was not much to do in the chateau and most days I spent my time conversing with the Beast. He was a puzzling contradiction. He lived and behaved like an animal, and yet when we talked he would sometimes say something or do something that revealed a genteel education, as though once upon a time he had been a gentleman and had only forgotten how. I could speak with him on politics and philosophers- although speak is perhaps too kind a word, argue is closer to the truth for he was always quick to point out that those men I admired were quick to talk, but slow to do. But although there was passion in our words there was no heat. It was playful and cheerful, a sport between friends rather than a battle between enemies. That is what we became: friends. Free from the labor and the hardships of the village, forced to spend my time at the chateau idle and wasteful, I found myself acting as though I was a child once more. It was as though I was five years old again, roaming through the halls and snow-covered gardens with a joke and a prank, the Beast matching me wit for wit.

As the days progressed the Beast revealed a kindness and gentleness that I had never seen before. On the fifth day of Christmas he took me deep within the chateau, presenting me with its library. Not only had he permitted me entrance, he had bequeathed to me every single book inside. I had received a few presents throughout the years during Christmastime – not that the Beast ever admitted that the library was a Christmas gift – but always something small and practical, such as a new pair of gloves. But there were thousands of books that lined the library's walls and I found myself overcome with emotion. There were not only the printed books that I was used to, but also illuminated manuscripts from the medieval and Renaissance periods. They had not been touched for many years and there were a few whose pages crumbled in my hands.

We spent many hours within that library, I reading aloud while the Beast silently listened. It was the only time that I saw the animal soothe its raging pain and anger, quieted and gentled by my voice. That very day I found hidden among the shelves a copy of Ovide's _Métamorphoses_ and after supper I read to him from it, translating from Latin to French as I spoke each word aloud. It became his favorite book, the stories of transformations, of bodies becoming other bodies, touched him in a way that I did not yet understand. The Beast was not the only one who was struck by the words of this long-dead poet. I felt my heart stutter when I read Iphis's lament aloud:

_"What end awaits me now?"_

_She says. "I am possessed by love so strange_

_That none has ever known its monstrous pangs._

_If heaven meant to spare me, then the gods_

_Should have done so; and if the gods' intent_

_Was to destroy me, then the means they chose_

_Could have been natural- a normal woe."_

For I realized that I had indeed grown to love the Beast, and it was not natural and it was not good. I did not act upon these feelings, but I did nothing to suppress them either. I simply did not worry about it.

On the Twelfth Night the Beast sent me an invitation to join him for an evening of feasting and dancing. It was a party of two, but I enjoyed it immensely. That night the Beast no longer looked like a monster to me. I did not see fur, nor horns, nor tail. He was simply a gentleman.

That night he asked me whether or not I was happy. I confessed to him that I was, only that I wished I could see my father once more. He took me to his quarters, with its tomb of objects, and showed me a silver mirror. The mirror revealed to me anything that I wished for and in its reflection I saw my father dying of cold. I felt frightened and ashamed; I spent these many weeks happy and warm and safe within the Beast's castle while the rest of the world – while my father – toiled and perished. At the sight of my tears the Beast freed me of my imprisonment and gave me the mirror as a parting gift. I wish I could have shown my gratitude to him then, but all my thoughts were for my father.

I raced back to the cottage where I spent the next week nursing my father back to health. However, the quiet peace of the village soon erupted into violence. Upon my return Gaston once more attempted to gain my hand in marriage. I said no, as always, but this time Gaston would no longer accept my refusal. The once handsome man had transformed into nothing more than an animal. He advanced towards me and with my father ill and weak there was no one to help me. But just because there was no one to help did not mean that I was helpless. I took the mirror and summoned a vision of the Beast, frightening Gaston with his terrifying countenance. He stepped away from me and on learning of who the Beast was he became terribly angry once more. He could see the love I held for the Beast in my face and in his rage Gaston locked me and Papa inside our cellar while he rallied the villagers into a frenzy, full of bloodlust and fear.

I was able to escape the cellar but the village men had already left to kill the Beast. I rode back to the chateau only to see the Beast and Gaston locked in a mortal struggle atop the castle's roof. I flung myself inside, running up the stairs, into the Beast's apartment and out onto the balcony. I watched helplessly as Gaston thrust his knife within the Beast's side, only to lose his footing and plummet to the ground below. As the Beast slowly and painfully made his way to my side I saw the man's corpse land within the castle's garden, only to be swallowed up by the ground and the rose bushes to rise up to cover his grave, their prickly thorns a deterrent to all.

I helped the Beast pull himself back onto the balcony where he collapsed by my side. I clutched the dying creature as I wept, not caring that the blue of my dress was stained a russet red. All I knew was that the Beast, my friend, was near death. When he exhaled his last breath I confessed my unnatural love for him, although by then it was too late. Or so I thought.

At my exclamation, the Beast was engulfed in a brilliant light. Frightened, I scurried away and watched as the Beast was transformed from an animal into a man. He was – he is – a beautiful man but I didn't see any of it. All I saw were his eyes, a brilliant blue, the same as my Beast. It was him, transformed by the gods like in those stories he did so love. My Beast had become my husband, your father.

And what happens next, my little Rose? Did we have a happy life together in those few short years God gave us? Do you wish to know of your father's triumphant return to Versailles, of our banishment from the King's presence? That I will have to speak on in my next letter for the light is nearly gone, and I need my rest.

 

With all of my love,

Mama


	7. Chapter 7

December 3, 1746

 

My Darling Rose,

My only sweet and dear child! Blessing, blessing, blessing on this Wednesday morning! My blessing is the only thing I have left to give you.

What am I to tell you, my little Rose? I sleep for more hours than the day can provide now and I have grown so very weak. I wish we had more time together, but God takes those when it pleases Him. I fear that this will be my last letter, so I shall make it a good one then. I have yet to finish my story and I always thought that a sad tale was best for winter.

Upon the breaking of your father's curse, the entire castle was transformed and everything and everyone inside. The castle became your home, the Chateau de Mehun-sur-Yévre, and the servants and guests and courtiers shed their wooden and porcelain bodies and became men and women once more. I led the Beast, now Man, into the castle where the wonderful throng of people celebrated their amazement and joy.

The Beast took me to a quiet room, an ordinary room filled with ordinary furniture and what a queer thought I had sitting upon a chair that did not move or sigh. In that room the beautiful man confessed to me his name, a secret he had closely guarded. His name was Louis d'Alençon, he told me, and that he was the Duke of Berry. I could not help but gasp aloud. I knew that name. All of France knew that name. The country had mourned this lost duke six years prior. Everyone had heard the stories, of how the Duke had hosted a Christmas party at his chateau only for him and everyone inside to disappear without a trace, his chateau destroyed and crumbling, and the strange noises that could be heard from it late at night. The King's last living cousin, gone without so much of a whisper. It was the curse, we Parisians had said, the curse of the Bourbons. How right we were!

Louis told me of the curse and the Enchantress, of those long, hard years alone with nothing but his guilt and thoughts and the petals on the rose forever counting down. Such is the ways of the Fair Folk; they have no thoughts of justice or crime or punishment. They think of nothing but their own arrogant whims and wounded pride.

Your father asked me to marry him in that little room. I said yes. Of course, I said yes! But even then I knew that the time for magic was over. We could no longer live in the fairy world we had created for ourselves; it was time for us to enter the harsh light of day. I was aware of the trouble we would incite. The Duke of Berry, the royal cousin of the King, married to a bourgeoisie! Your father, my dear Louis, seemed unaware. He had forgotten so much. Or, perhaps, he just no longer understood the real world and simply chose not to dwell on such confusing things.

When we left that room most of the servants and courtiers had fled the castle in search of their homes and loved ones. A few had stayed, such as Madame Potts and Monsieur Cogsworth. Cogsworth assured us that Lumière and Babette still remained in the chateau as well, although it would perhaps be best if we refrained from looking for them. It was a strange sight to see a face on these dear friends where none was there before! Louis commanded Cogsworth to journey to Versailles and give news of his return and when Lumière appeared he sent him to St. Benoit-du-Salt to fetch my father.

A few days later we appeared at the Église Notre-Dame in the village of Mehun-sur-Yévre. What a sight we must have been for the priest! The lost Duke of Berry, appearing with an unknown girl and an entourage of three! I did not have a wedding dress; no gold silk adorned my body. I wore the finest dress I owned: a blue dress that I attended Mass in with cream-colored flowers, a dress that could be found on the body of any peasant girl. I had no panniers, no finery, nothing to mark me as the future Duchess of Berry. My Louis looked even worse. The few clothes that had not been torn in his quest to dress as a Man when he was still but a Beast were moth-eaten and mismatched. What a funny little couple we made! And our guests were merely our servants. Young Chip was not there nor was Cogsworth who had yet to return from Versailles. My father, still ill, had not attended either, but had given his blessing. The priest blessed us and we drank the wine of the Eucharist and then he bound us together as man and wife. It was done and none could pull us apart though they tried.

It took a week for Cogsworth to return to us and what a lovely week it was. It was like it was Christmas again and he was the Beast and I was just the peasant girl. We laughed and played and the servants joined in and my father grew stronger, happy now that I was happy. When Monsieur Cogsworth arrived he delivered a hefty sum from King Louis XV so that we may outfit ourselves as was proper of a Duke and Duchess. Upon the acquisition of our new finery we left the chateau, leaving behind those servants who had stayed with Louis to care for the castle. We were heralded at every city and village we travelled through, the streets teeming with onlookers anxious to see the lost Duke and his new bride. We arrived at Versailles in splendor. By the time we entered the King's presence, everyone had heard the tale of Louis's curse. The King held a masked ball in our honor the night we arrived. The entire palace was illuminated with light; candles and torches were everywhere. It must have looked like a great fire from far away. A flood of carriages rattled down the Avenue de Paris, but Louis and I were given our own apartment within Versailles like the other nobles. We merely came down the marble staircase; I in gold silk and he with a sword by his side. Neither of us wore masks. Louis was resistant to the idea of covering his face.

There was a maddening rush of people pushing their way through the entire palace. They blazed through the Queen's rooms – even her bedroom! – carrying plates of food as they went. Louis was horribly uncomfortable by the mass of people surging about, pressing him for details of his curse. It was a good thing he had such a gallant wife to save him! I pulled him out onto the dance floor, taking him away from the prying courtiers. We danced through much of the night, beside the King and his masked mistress, the Comtesse de Mailly. I remember when the Queen arrived in a dress covered with pearls and diamonds in her hair. A comtesse, I can't remember which, danced with a Spanish nobleman all night long. She was completely besotted by the handsome man. Who wasn't? Until the next day when it was revealed that the Spanish gentleman was in fact a cook from the kitchens. The comtesse was thoroughly mortified and her dance with the cook became the ending to many a joke.

The ball gave Versailles an illusion of gaiety and beauty, but we soon learned it was an illusion only. There is no freedom at Versailles, only fearful paranoia and forced boredom. The nobility were coerced within the palace's stone walls by the King's grandfather, the Sun King, to keep an eye on the forever scheming counts and dukes, making them politically weak. And now the courtiers have been trapped for so long they no longer know how to be free. They are but mere serfs in silk, completely dependent on the King and his purse. Louis and I felt entombed by the ridiculous rules and petty plots, the only thing these sad people had to keep them from realizing they were but prisoners.

No matter what I seemed to do, I was constantly at a misstep. I was bourgeoisie and unwelcomed at the shimmering Versailles. Everything is treated as though it were a joke at Versailles, especially the weaknesses of others. There were a thousand little nuances that every courtier knew – how to greet one another, whom I may speak to, how I was to address a count or a duke – which I was wholly ignorant of. Everyone could tell the difference between myself and the true nobility just by our walks. The courtiers walked stiffly and quickly, their steps tiny like little porcelain dolls. I walked as though I still had feet! Happiness was a requirement; no other emotion was tolerated. Strong, unhappy emotions were unpleasant for the courtiers. This proved quite hard for me when Papa died but a year later in 1739. Although he had survived his illness, he remained weak and succumbed the next winter. I mourned him for months. Even now I miss him dearly. How I wish he could be here to comfort me in my time of weakness. As you can imagine, your father's dramatic moods were not well liked by those at Versailles either. Not that Louis ever cared. Louis did not bother with such things, but as the Duke of Berry no one was willing to comment on it. I was fair game, however. Whispers followed me where I went. I remember the Princess de Conti whispering in a loud voice, purposefully loud enough for me to hear, that I was but a mere "kept woman from the streets of Paris". There were other rumors. Most of the courtiers did not believe the story of Louis's curse. They believed the story was invented to give him an excuse to marry a poor girl without a genteel background, an act that would have been impossible otherwise.

Louis and I were wholly unaccustomed to life at Versailles. Perhaps Louis had once been as foppish and shallow as the other nobles at the palace, but now he was brooding and uncaring of intrigue and parties and fashion, his thoughts too deep for their empty minds. I was considered crude and coarse, speaking on things that a woman such as I should not speak of. Neither of us were fond of gambling or mindless liaisons that so populated Versailles. We were avoided by most courtiers; only the Queen and her entourage accepted us at their little parties. I was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen; my marriage to Louis made me a Princess of Blood, earning me the title Madame la Duchesse, which sanctioned me the right to help the Queen prepare every morning. What a scandal that caused! A bourgeoisie as a Princess of Blood! But the King held a fondness for me and permitted it. Like Louis, he too had lost most of his family at a young age and was delighted at the return of his cousin. That, and he did enjoy good conversation with beautiful women. If the Comtesse de Mailly had not already been his official mistress, I fear he would have turned his affections towards me. Luckily, the comtesse guarded her position with jealousy and though I suffered her malicious tongue it spared me from the King's attention. The Princesses of the Blood did everything from buckling the Queen's shoes to lacing her corset. It was considered an honor. I considered it exceedingly indulgent. Queen Marie is the exiled daughter of the King of Poland; she is not pretty or wealthy or particularly interesting. She is seven years older than the King and quite dull with very little personality. But she is sweet and kind and loyal and pious. She would invite Louis and I to supper and to play cards. I think the Queen and Louis and I were the only ones there at her little parties who were under the age of fifty. She was terribly sweet, if a bore, and I found that I could not refuse her, even if Louis did tend to fall asleep during their conversations.

In 1740 war broke out between France and Austria. The Emperor had died, leaving only his daughter Marie-Thérèse as his heir. The ascension of a female ruler was a convenient excuse for the military clique to declare war with the ever-hated enemy, the Hapsburgs. I defended the young Empress, decrying her treatment at the hands of France and Prussia. I believe that women are as equal to men, not only in the eyes of God but in all earthly affairs as well. Is it our fault that we are given so little and therefore treated as though we have little to give? The slavery and the kind of degradation into which men have plunged women, the shackles that men place on our mind and soul, and finally the disastrous, I would say almost murderous, education which they prescribe for us without permitting us another ruins any worth we may have. All that can be said further against women is equally destitute of reason and philosophy; all the defects with which we are reproached are the work of man, of society, and of an ill-regulated education. I was defamed as unpatriotic, especially by the Comte de Charolais. Louis rushed to defend my honor by inciting a duel with the Comte, whose volatile temperament matched his. I knew nothing of this. The duel was shrouded in secrecy, lest the wives discover it. I only came to know of it when Louis arrived at our apartment, bleeding from his arm. The bullet had ripped the flesh on the side of his arm, but did not actually pierce him. It was a wound that was quickly stitched up, but I feared that fever would overtake him. Luckily, Louis did not fall ill and the wound healed well. He did suffer my wrath, and let it be known that even beasts quake at a raging woman.

The Comte de Charolais did not fare as well. Louis's bullet hit him in the leg, and though he did not die he did suffer a limp. The King could not overlook this, however, and banished Louis and I from Versailles for instigating such quarrels. Our banishment was regarded as a great shame and we were treated as though we were dead; there were many who wondered if we would commit suicide. Louis and I were glad to be free of Versailles, for so long as we had remained in favor we could not leave, not with Louis being as powerful as he was.

We returned to the chateau where we were welcomed home by the servants, and that is where we have stayed for the past six years. We are impoverished, it is true; the King no longer gives us an allowance or pays for our wants and necessities. We live on what the chateau produces. Although we are not surrounded by luxury or decadence, we are never hungry or cold or left wanting. This life is a comfortable one compared to the village of St. Benoit-du-Sault and a happier one than our lives at Versailles. We occasionally host parties here where we see to the members of the landed gentry, or the philosophes, or other banished nobles. I have my own salon where I am visited by Voltaire and Helvétius. I am much more confident in their company now than I was when I was a girl. I am proud to say that I have even assisted them in their quest to write their great Encyclopédie. I wish I had lived long enough to see it published.

What else can I say, my love? There is nothing left to my story. Perhaps if I feel well enough tomorrow I will write on something else. I wish to tell you everything. I will never get a chance to speak with you and converse with you and so I must write everything down. But not today. Today I must rest. Until tomorrow, my daughter.

 

I will love you always,

Mama

* * *

Claude DuPont quietly folded the faded letter at the last line. He had been the son of poor farmers from St. Benoit-du-Sault – before he became a soldier in Robespierre's new army, the army of the Revolution – and of course knew of the stories there, of a local village girl who had been imprisoned by a beast. But it had just been a story. It couldn't be real.

And yet here he was, with the rest of his brigade, at the Chateau de Mehun-sur-Yévre, the very place where the long-dead Duchess of Berry claimed the story to have taken place fifty years ago.

"What are you doing sitting around here for?" Lieutenant Morel barked out. "Why aren't you with the other men?"

Claude immediately jumped to his feet, the letters still clutched in his hand. "Sorry, sir, I was just looking at some of these old letters. I found them in that chest over there. Thought maybe they could be used against the Duke at his trial."

"Oh?" The Lieutenant inquired. "Did you find anything?"

"No, sir, just the ramblings of a delusional woman."

"Throw them on the fire then."

Claude nodded and followed his lieutenant down the stairs where the rest of the soldiers were waiting. They had taken control of the chateau as a base for their operations. They had been commanded by Robespierre himself to hunt down traitors to the Revolution. He didn't know exactly what it meant to be a traitor, but he was sure his lieutenant would let him know.

Claude threw the letters into the old, rotten fireplace. He watched as the yellow paper blackened and became ash, their words lost forever to the flames.


End file.
